Gash
by VanessaGalore
Summary: WeeVer. Weevil needs Veronica's help one last time. NOT for hardcore LoVeShippers. Please read the warnings.


**Xx Xx Xx THIS IS NOT YLD xX xX xX**

**PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS.**

**THANK YOU!**

**_[Speaking of YLD, there will be an update in a couple days, a week at the most.  
The muse is strong with VanessaGalore lately.]_**

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**TITLE:** Gash  
**AUTHOR:** VanessaGalore  
**CHARACTERS:** Veronica/Weevil, implied established relationship Veronica/Logan.  
**WORD COUNT:** 2,400.  
**RATING:** NC-17.  
**SUMMARY:** Weevil needs Veronica's help one last time.  
**SPOILERS:** Vague reference to the end of season 2 (for the one person who hasn't seen it).  
**WARNINGS: **Cursing, explicit sex, infidelity. Not intended for readers under 17.

**Xx Xx Xx NOT FOR HARDCORE LoVeSHIPPERS xX xX xX  
Consider yourself warned.**

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only.

Written for The Porn Battle. battle•oxoniensis•org (The VM contingent is woefully weak in number.) My prompts were Veronica/Weevil/Logan and bruise, although I took liberties. Beta'd by dragynflies and kazy. Any errors at this point are my responsibility.

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The doorbell rang three times, and then again before Veronica could get to the door.

"All right, all right," she muttered. She pulled the curtain to the side momentarily before quickly turning the deadbolt and throwing open the door.

She sucked in her breath. "Weevil."

"Yeah. About fucking time you answered the door," he said.

Veronica reached out a hand to his face, bloodied and bruised.

"Uh, do you think I could come in, because I think your neighbors might call the cops, and that would definitely be bad," he said impatiently. She stepped aside, and he entered the apartment, limping weakly.

"You're bleeding," she exhaled as he grabbed onto the counter for support. The back of his shirt and one leg of his jeans was thick with bright red blood.

"Yeah, no shit. Were you bullshitting me last year when you said you could stitch up a wound?"

She shook her head. "I took a class. We practiced on bananas."

"Great," he commented morosely. He picked up his shirt and turned around so she could see a gaping wound on his side, just below the hem of his jeans.

She touched the flesh gingerly. "What happened?"

"Rival gang," he answered without really explaining. "Do you think you can sew it up? Because if you can't, I need to get the fuck out of here and find somebody who can."

She found her voice. "Weevil, you need to go to the hospital...I can't take care of this."

"No hospital. It's obviously a knife wound...third strike, you know. I'm not going back to prison," he swore.

"I'm sure it was self-defense—"

"No. It wasn't." He looked at her with a challenge in his eyes. "He deserved it. He raped Arturo's girl."

Veronica stared for a long moment before nodding. She pointed to the bedroom. "Take off your clothes. You'll need new ones anyway." She stopped at the linen closet and grabbed a beach towel, throwing it at him. "Put that on the bed so you don't bleed all over it." She rummaged through the closet, looking for the first-aid kit. Finally, she found a package of sutures and a kit with Betadine, sterile gauze, and other first-aid supplies. She started for the bedroom before turning around and grabbing a bottle from the kitchen cabinet.

Weevil was lying face up on the towel in his underwear and socks. The bloodstained clothing has been jammed into a plastic bag he must have found somewhere in the room — _thanks for keeping your DNA off my carpet_, she thought.

"Tighty-whities, really? I prefer boxers, for future reference," she snarked, hoping the joke would put him at ease.

He grunted wordlessly. She put the bottle of Jim Beam on the bedside table, and he took the hint, uncapping it and taking a long swig.

"I thought you quit the PCHers," she mused.

"So did I. But it turns out I still love those guys."

She sat down next to him on the bed and looked at the deep cut. "I'm just going to clean it, okay?"

"Yeah, do it."

She began to clean the wound. There was a lot of blood and dirt—Veronica imagined him rolling around on the ground, slashing at his opponent, finally getting the upper hand and driving the knife home. The pile of bloodied gauze grew larger as she worked methodically. He grimaced and drank more of the bourbon as the peroxide bubbled up in the wound. Finally, she was satisfied and capped the peroxide bottle. She thoroughly swabbed the wound with Betadine, her teeth gnawing at her lower lip in concentration. She took the package of sutures and began reading the detailed instructions on the plastic cover.

"You know what the fuck you're doing, right?" he said nervously, watching her studying.

"How hard could it be?" she teased.

"Fuck."

"Relax. I'm just making sure I remember everything," she said reassuringly. "I'm sorry I can't give you an anesthetic. It turns out you can't get everything online after all. ...Are you ready? Do you want another?" She nodded at the bottle of Jim Beam.

Weevil took a deep draft of the liquor; his eyes stayed on hers as he upended the bottle. "I'm ready," he said finally, replacing the bottle on the table. He almost knocked it over, and Veronica quickly grabbed it before it could spill. His face was quite close to hers, and she could smell the fumes of the bourbon on his breath.

"Two deep breaths," she instructed, bending to his torso. On the second exhale, she inserted the suture needle, and Weevil grabbed the sheets on the bed in a stranglehold. "You're okay?" she asked. He was only able to nod, and she began to work quickly. She misjudged his breathing at one point, and he let out a small cry of pain as the needle went in.

"All done," she announced finally. His eyes closed in relief. "Be right back."

She returned and began to clean a small cut she had noticed on his eyebrow; his eyes flew open at the sting of the peroxide. "You've got a little cut here. It probably should have a stitch too. But I think it'll be all right with a couple steri-strips." She held the small adhesive strips for him to see.

"Florence fucking Nightingale," he commented.

"Beggars can't be choosers," she advised him. She placed the strips with tweezers and examined her work, nodding in satisfaction. "I think you'll live. Maybe. Have you had a tetanus shot recently?"

"Yeah." She started to turn away, and he grabbed her arm and held her in place. Weevil said, "Thanks. I guess I owe you."

"You sure about that?" she teased. "Seeing you in your BVD's is worth something. I'll go get you a pair of my dad's sweats."

"No," he said, his voice husky with pain and alcohol. "Don't go."

"Come on," she replied, pulling on her arm. "You need to get out of here."

"Not yet." He reached with his thumb and touched that lower lip that had taunted him, had accused him, had even smiled at him once or twice. Weevil dragged his thumb across her jaw to the soft skin under her ear and stroked her neck gently with the calloused pad of his thumb. He pulled her closer and breathed in her clean scent of fabric softener mixed with the Mars brand of righteous living.

There was the slightest hitch in her breath as she realized that he meant to kiss her. He watched, but she did not draw away; he took it as a sign and pressed his lips, bruised and battered from someone's knuckles, against the yielding softness of her flesh.

She tasted the bourbon and the slight memory of a cigarette smoked earlier in the evening; she had a vision of PCHers gathered on the Coronado, having a last smoke before mounting their bikes to wreak their vengeance.

And she wondered if, had he known, would he have avenged her? Would he have split his knuckles on that lying baby face who had fooled them all...even her?

"Eli," she whispered.

"Don't like that name," he muttered against her lips. "Come here," Weevil begged, urging her hips closer.

"Be careful—" she began, but he grabbed a handful of her hair and rolled her onto her side. He felt the sutures pulling, the bite of her needle still aching in his side, and he didn't give a fuck. He was hard as hell, and he was already going to regret everything he had done tonight anyway. He tongued her mouth and forced himself in. He wanted to taste her and see what mysteries were concealed by that smirk that she wore most days. He had always wondered how much of her true feelings were actually on display.

His tongue filled her mouth; she let out a little gasp at the intensity of it. Weevil pulled her hand, still trapped in his tight grip, down to his throbbing cock straining the bounds of his white underwear. She touched him hesitantly, and he whispered, "C'mon, you know you always wanted to ride my big old hog, here's your chance." He released her hand and pushed the material out of the way for her.

Veronica looked down and breathed out; he wasn't kidding, he was erect and _fucking glorious_, she thought — no shame in this arousal. He touched her chin and lifted her jaw. "Look at me, Veronica. I've been wanting to do this for a long-assed time now." He slipped his hand under her shirt and traced his knuckles across her belly. "You're going to scream my name if it's the last thing I do," he swore.

She kept her eyes locked with his as his hand forced itself under her bra to the smooth curve of the skin under her breast. He watched her eyes closely as he caressed lightly, half-expecting her to change her mind and whip out her taser. She breathed heavily, panting as he touched her: reaching, reaching, finally...grasping her nipple gently between his thumb and forefinger and sending her into a paroxysm of sensation. He saw her reaction and flicked his finger lazily against her. She shuddered and pressed her hips into his, and, encouraged, he began a full-out assault on the tender flesh of her breasts.

Frantically, he pushed the material of her shirt and bra up and maneuvered her body writhing on top of him so that he could suck on those jutting nipples. She moaned and threw her head back, and, without letting his mouth lose contact on her breasts, he slid his hand down the front of her tight jeans and buried his hand in her curls.

Veronica groaned from deep in her throat as his hand touched her dampness. Logan would have been talking dirty to her, telling her he was going to make her come, keeping up a constant litany of instructions and observations. But Weevil just stared at her, possessing her with the black pools of his eyes. He sucked on her breast and looked up at her, making certain she knew he intended to fuck her into the ground. His finger probed and pushed, taking her whether she was ready to give or not...but she _was_ ready. She felt how wet she was, her slickness pornographic and startling.

He pulled her lips to him and thrust his finger inside her, ratcheting up the intensity again. She frantically tried to pull down her jeans to give him more access, but he refused to move and insisted on maintaining control over her most intimate tissues. Finally, she took his hand and wrenched it to her mouth, sucking her arousal from his fingers as she forced her jeans over her hips.

"Fuck, Veronica," he said watching her greedily swallowing his fingers. With her jeans finally gone, she pulled off her top and her bra and bent down to his crotch. He closed his eyes and let her take control.

She slipped her hand behind his cock, lifting it delicately to her mouth and licking a long line from the base to the tip. He jerked in her hand, and she swirled her tongue around the head and gently caressed his length as she tongued him. Veronica pressed her lips together and rubbed her mouth over him, teasing the tip and pulling away until she finally, in a burst of bravery she'd never had before, took him in her mouth as deep as she could.

"Holy shit," Weevil breathed as her lips gripped his shaft tightly, working up and down. He felt his length bumping against the back of her throat, and still she seemed to take him in.

"Come here," he growled, grabbing her arms and pulling her off, intending to roll her over onto her back.

She resisted, pushing against his chest and using her leverage against his superior strength. "I'm going to be on top," she whispered. "I don't want you ruining my handiwork." Before he could answer, she straddled him and sank down on his cock.

"No wonder your boy Logan is so fucking pussy-whipped," Weevil commented breathlessly.

"Don't say his name," she whispered. Veronica leaned to his ear and whispered, "Eli...Eli."

He grabbed her hips, and she knew she'd be marked tomorrow with the bruises of those strong fingers...and she didn't care. She raised herself up on her elbows and began to really fuck him, driving herself down on him with all her strength.

Suddenly, they heard a key in the lock and the front door opening. Veronica almost screamed aloud in surprise, but Weevil managed to get his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. They stopped moving and listened.

"Veronica?" Logan's voice called.

The apartment was silent as Logan waited.

Weevil gazed into Veronica's eyes above his hand still tightly covering her mouth. He thrust up, daring her to make a sound. He wondered it the bed squeaked; he hadn't exactly been paying attention. It was the height of insanity, but he kept his hand clapped over her mouth and thrust again, trying to make her scream. He put his thumb to her clit and began to stroke her violently.

"Dammit! She went off on her own without even leaving me a note again. God fucking damn it, Veronica; you're not invincible," Logan muttered in the living room. They heard the light switch being flipped on and a drawer being opened. Still, Weevil fucked her; her eyes watered with the effort of silence as she bucked against his thumb.

The front door finally opened and closed again, with an angry slam, and the deadbolt slid home. As Weevil pumped into her, they heard the quiet footsteps walking away on the concrete sidewalk outside.

He finally took his hand from her mouth, and she whispered, "Bastard."

"What...ah!!..did you want me to do?" he asked slyly as she rose to the tip of his cock and slammed down once again.

"Just what you're doing," she admitted with a quiet groan. He sped the movements of his thumb and pushed hard, determined to break her, make her his this one time they would have. She closed her eyes and panted, thrusting against his finger and moving her hips with his as she began to vibrate and shudder around him.

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Several months later, in a tattoo parlor near Oaxaca, Mexico, a short Mexican man showed the artist a jagged pink scar on his torso and asked to have the name Veronica inscribed above it.


End file.
